


Pinball

by madcowmama



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, brittana fic, future!sugar fic, sugar from the future verse, world on a string
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcowmama/pseuds/madcowmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2051. Santana and Brittany's son Charles poses as Stoner Brett to get Sugar to return to his timestream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinball

Nailed it.

He'd become so used to missing the moment, that when he saw her, for an instant he froze, breathless.

It had been ten years for him, but more like one year for her. She saw him emerge from the locker, gave him a look of disdain, not seeing him, not really, and continued her trajectory, and her conversation.

Good thing he'd had his ducks in a row.

The auburn wig fell over his eyes, and the knit hat disguised his stature. That ratty plaid shirt he'd found covered any of the rest anyone might notice. Now he just needed the dazed and confused affect. That one wasn't difficult. The time machine had shaken him up pretty hard this time.

He watched her walk down the hall with her friends, pause at the bulletin board, and walk on. He moved over to see what she'd been looking at. Glee club sign-ups. Huh.

At that very moment, a huge redhead in a letter jacket shoved him into the wall as he passed by. "What's up, stoner?"

"Wha-aaat?" he said. Dazed and confused.

Right, he was signing up for glee club. Name, he'd taken a name, what was it? Like Mama. Right. Brett. Brett… Stoner.

Enormous hands picked him up completely and shoved him inside a locker.

Without his sister to defend him, he'd had to acquire the skills to maintain a certain amount of bodily safety and dignity at his school. He'd had to beg his parents to leave it to him and not run to the administration. He told them he'd be getting in trouble, but it was all part of his plan. He got in trouble, alright. Three days' suspension for going all Washington Heights on the biggest bully in school. Guy was a mountain. The damage was infinitesimal, compared to the boost in his rep. Nobody touched him after that. Nobody. He could take the name-calling: pinhead, geek, retard, faggot, fuckin' crazy. Whatever. There's no reasoning with the intentionally stupid. You just have to manipulate them. He'd learned the hard eyes from Mom.

He peered through the ventilation slits. The hall was clear. But his head wasn't. Pain was everywhere. He quietly opened the locker and had just stepped out when the bell rang. Moments later, he was afloat in a sea of teens.

Suddenly, his elbow was yanked to the side and he washed up on the shore of the journalism club, looking into the eyes of his rescuer. Ooh, that is so weird. Teen Mama. What was he doing? What was it? Signing up for glee. He had to get out of here. But her hand wouldn't let go.

"You need to stay here this period," she said.

She didn't let go until he started to shuffle toward a desk. She had the look she would get when people made rude remarks about him. He knew he'd better roll with it. Maybe he would stop hurting. He did his best to keep his head up while the— Coach? was humiliating another student, but it felt almost like he needed to catch up with himself: Worst. Jet lag. Ever.

Brittany sat at the next desk. She was wearing the frowny-face, but she smelled delicious. Gross, Dude. It's just not cool to think of your mother as hot. Moving on.

Wait, Mama— no, Brittany— in journalism club? No, this was The Muckraker, so— ohhh. Too early. And his clothes were different? How—? He'd fixed the machine. He'd refined how to work it. He'd controlled it just fine before. Something… Something was at work here that was not him. And was not in his plan. And was not in his control. Sometimes ducks fly. Fly with it.

Try a new plan. When the bell rang again, he tried to make his way back to the last locker he'd spun through. The current rushed him toward the bulletin board, but then into the bio classroom next to it. He sat in the back of the class for the period, hoping to get his bearings. After the bell, more lettermen grabbed him and scrubbed the whiteboard with his head. Then they were gone. He filled in what had been wiped off, correcting the errors. At second bell, he ventured out into the hallway to find the open locker. He took a moment to focus, to imagine, to get precise, as he had taught himself. Then he stepped in.

Time became elastic, and he chose his moment. The machine lurched and bumped, the sound of metal strain filled his ears. He felt as if he and the locker had been hurled to the floor from a significant height. Humans aren't supposed to do this; probably all life forms aren't supposed to do this, unless there are silcone rubber life forms. Then his chest started aching again. Last time it had taken months to heal. But maybe, if his theory was correct, he wouldn't have to worry about that. Maybe.

Mom had let him go. He was going to sneak off, but she caught him. If it had been Mama, there's no way she would have caved. But Mama remained asleep this time, even though every other time she'd awakened when he got anywhere near the machine. He'd taken to sneaking home from school in the middle of the day, when they were both working. Almost every time, he'd been able to get home before they did. Almost. So they'd grounded him. Until he convinced Mom that this was their chance: to get back what they'd lost; everyone would get a do-over. And Mama did everyone a favor by staying asleep.

He was sweating when he stepped out this time, but the sign up sheet was right there, on the bulletin board. Nailed it again. His head was still ringing when he signed up: Stoner Brett. The ringing was compounded by that of the school bell. Did that thing ever stop?

The next many moments were those of a pinball, zinging off the bumpers, ringing bells, and lights flashing behind his eyes. Getting launched into lockers, dumped into dumpsters, and stuffed into squat-boxes. How did his parents survive this place? He didn't even get a chance to prove himself here, because something… something didn't give him an extra moment.

Was he stuck? Trapped in a pinball machine forever? Or was this some perverse kind of Groundhog Day? Somehow if he did something right, he'd move forward in time instead of bouncing, literally, from hell moment to hell moment? This gave him a real window into the hardness both of his parents sometimes had. Already it was making him harder than he already was. What was the point? Why this? Why now? What was the point? His sister— Sugar, now, Sugar— she was the point, right? Right? Find her again, get her home, move on. Or back. Do-overs, that was the point. Keep trying for that moment when Sugar could see him, really see him, and be ready to come back.

Ready to come back. Ready. In a year, she'd established so many tethers to this time and place. And what about Al? Would he be willing to come back? And if not, what would happen to the timestream?

He spied Teen Mom— Santana— stalking toward him in a fabulous red satin jacket with Teen Uncle Dave. His stomach churned. It was too weird. She stopped the violence, and he loved her like never before. The adrenaline pinned him to the spot. What was it Mama used to say? Use the freeze to catch your breath, then find the flight and fly, little duck. He ran. Into the girls' bathroom. Time stretched, popped him like a rubber band, and he smacked right into Brittany.

"Oh, um. Sorry."

"Hey Homeless Brett, wanna see somethin?"

"Hunh?"

"It's me and Santana's sex tape."

"Mama! Gross!"

"I intercut it with footage of Lord Tubbington doing housework."

"Wha-aaat?"

She looked at him closely.

"Is that a wig, Charlie?"

"It's Brett."

"Make sure Santana knows how much you like the video, okay, Brett?"

And she was gone.

Homeless Brett. And wasn't he, now? He smelled that way. He entered a stall hoping that he could just rest, just long enough to gather his wits, or get kicked out. And when he got kicked out, when would he be? He had to find Al. Al and Sugar. And get them home.

Brittany had smelled different, this Time. Closer to how he remembered she will. How odd, just now, to wish he could just crawl into her lap the way he could ten years ago. And he spun it out, his string, without the machine at all, and he felt the fabric of time begin (oh god) to bend. Stop. Stop now! Please.

And it stopped. Whatever-it-was stopped it. Like it was listening. Like it was waiting. Like it was giving him some time.

What if… what if he helped out Brittany? (Nothing.) What if he found Santana and told her about the cat doing chores? (Time breathed easily.) Why would any of that be more important than bringing Sugar home? (He felt the wind-up again, then as his intention backed off, so did the wind-up.) What if he does whatever it seems to want? How long before he gets what he came for? And on whose timeline?

So he did it. And when he did it, he took the opportunity to tell his Mom just how much he loved her, but with the dazed and confused affect. And almost as soon as he left the library, he was flung decades into the future, and as he catapulted, he spun out his string, latched onto the cosmic connection between his parents, and found himself, maybe an hour or two after he'd left, outside the door to their room. He tapped gently on the door.

"Mom?" he asked softly. "Mama?"


End file.
